


From Cazador with Loathing

by Skullharvester



Series: One-Shots (Baldur's Gate 3) [4]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Bard - Freeform, M/M, Poet - Freeform, Tiefling, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skullharvester/pseuds/Skullharvester
Summary: A decent person probably wouldn't want to go skimming through Cazador's private letters.  They can be a little...intense.
Relationships: Cazador (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: One-Shots (Baldur's Gate 3) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120211
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	From Cazador with Loathing

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy and have fun!
> 
> If you liked this tale, please drop me a kudos and/or a comment to let me know if you'd like to see more!
> 
> Thank you, and have a wonderful night!

* * *

* * *

Dobrogost,

The very thought of your smug, self-congratulatory face fills me with a maddening rage, boils my cold blood, and sets a fire in my loins. Every night I’m reminded of the first time you rutted up against me like a common barn animal, despoiling me with your Hells-tainted seed.

I imagine myself riding up and down against your infernal prick; you believe you have me, but I’m the one who has you. All of you, inside me. With my nails, I claw into your supple pink chest, etching my name and marking you as my own. You sing out the words embedded into your skin, and I lean down to lavish you in impassioned kisses before tearing into your throat with my fangs. It’s not enough to silence your perpetually wagging tongue, but far be it from me to do away with that lovely voice of yours, when it’s put to good use.

When it’s not, I shall punish you. If you dare speak out of turn or insult my honor by whispering obscene things to me, I’ll grip you by the curve of your horns and lower those provocative lips onto my awaiting cock. If you resist, I’ll push myself deeper into you, choking you with my length until you weep for air. If you are too eager, I’ll put my boot between your bended knees and crush your bollocks until you heel like a good bitch.

Upon the hour I awaken at night, I yearn to feel the pulse of your heartbeat between my teeth as I plunge them into your erect phallus, gorging on the pooling blood that rolls down your shaft. Your taste is bitter and horrid, but that arouses me all the more. Your wickedness oozes from your very soul and into your veins, and I am thrilled by the familiarity of it all. You feed upon the flesh as I feed upon the blood of thinking creatures, and you delight in what you are just as I do. How glad I am to have known you after all these years of longing for a kindred spirit!

If only I could drain you dry more than but a single time, I would. Again and again, every night. But alas, even once would mean the end of our tryst as we know it, and it is a chapter I do not wish to end anytime soon.

You sicken and excite me all at once. Even as I write this to you with a quill in one hand, I fondle myself at the thought of you with the other.

Can’t you imagine it, darling?

My body leaned back against the chair of my writing desk, thighs spread apart as my fingers travel down the front of my trousers, teasing the wet slit of my manhood. The feather in my other hand brushes against my soft lips as I picture yours pressed to mine. My hand down below cradles my sex in its palm, massaging the growing member until it’s swollen with lust for you. It’s aching to be felt by you, but you aren’t near, and I’m left to tend to it myself. 

You ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so inattentive when your master needs you to service him. You should be here with me right now, but you aren’t. I won’t tolerate your absence a second time.

For your negligence, I will forbid you the rest of the details of my solo engagement, but I shall say this: The next time that we encounter one another, I expect you to ravish me. Even if there are other people about, I will demand that you strip me naked and fuck me senseless. I know you would do it, too, you filthy swine of a man. I appreciate that much about you: Your utter lack of shame and decency.

Now that my passions have calmed somewhat, here is an excerpt of the latest song I’ve written for you to sing to me:

Shall we descend through the flames of Avernus?

Past the fires that burn us?

What waits for us in the Hells cannot be known.

But with thine love upon mine side,

It matters not what does reside

within the deepest depths, for thou shan’t be denied.

I realize that it still needs work, but I won’t hear a word of your criticism. You may have the voice of an angel, but you know nothing of poetry, I assure you. And no, I am not getting defensive, as you so often assume. I’m simply stating the fact that I am the expert in this subject, and you are not. If I didn’t know what I was doing, my works wouldn’t be published in books all across Faerûn, obviously. 

And I will state again that this is only an _excerpt_ for a _work in progress_ , meaning that it is nowhere near the state of completion. So, before you even consider saying something smart to me about it, get that through your thick skull first. Do you understand?

Regardless, I miss you dearly, you loutish buffoon. Return to me soon. You know I cannot stand being made to wait for anything. You’re the only person I’ve ever known, who wasn’t a sycophant of Loviatar (you know that _I’m_ more worthy of your worship), with which I struggle to discern whether I should spare the rod or spoil you with it. I suppose I shall have to surprise you when I see you again, for I remain woefully undecided.

Wielder of your mortal (for now) heart, Cazador

P.S. Astarion, if you keep intercepting my private letters, I will gut you like a fish, you spiteful little worm. If I could go back in time, I would have left you bleeding out on the cobblestone where I found you. Turning you into my spawn was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, and I regret it more than you do.

P.P.S Dobrogost, if Astarion _hasn’t_ gotten his grubby little hands on this letter before you have, tell him I said that the next time you encounter him, and then slap him as hard as you possibly can. Then, throw him down onto the ground and start kicking his ribs in. I know that you’re _vaguely_ fond of him, but don’t be deceived by his charms; he’s nothing but a craven scoundrel, unworthy of any pity or praise. Be a dear and do that for me, won’t you? I would _deeply_ appreciate it.

* * *

Astarion rolled his eyes, shuddered, and gagged as he re-folded the parchment and tucked it back inside of the envelope it came from, reheating the wax seal with a candle’s flame to affix it back in place as neatly as possible to make it appear as if it had never been tampered with in the first place.

His suspicions were confirmed: Cazador was _still_ as vile and hypocritical as he remembered. And perhaps a little more unhinged than before. He didn’t think _that_ was possible. As troubling of a thought as that was, at least Cazador’s derangements were being directed towards a very stupid willing party for a change—someone who _deserved_ to fall head-first into the viper’s nest. That was… _sort of_ comforting.

All that mattered was that none of it was Astarion’s problem. Better yet: It was an issue that would surely resolve itself, in time. The two monsters—Cazador and Dobrogost—would more than likely be one another’s undoing in a manner most tragic. _That_ would be entertaining to watch, and it even made Astarion feel a little bit better that his former master hadn’t yet bit the dust. 

_Yet_.

**Author's Note:**

> "Oh, concubine, what are you made of? No resource on this earth is that soft. I swear by God you are an angel. Ironic how you help me raise hell."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Freak Like Me by NoMBe


End file.
